


Midnight Shadows Fall

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [1]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-27 21:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10817358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: A painful experience forever changes Michael and shapes his future.





	Midnight Shadows Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1998. All song lyrics belong to Michael Nesmith and/or The Monkees. They aren't original to me.

  
**Farmer's Branch, TX, 1961**

  


Away from the confines of the tiny high school at last, Michael released a quiet sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders melting away the further he got from the oppressive building. It wasn't that he hated school; in fact, he'd stayed late to help the band director clean and tune some of the instruments, and he enjoyed his classes--well, most of them. English and History were okay, but Math was a pain and Chemistry was a stone drag. No, what he disliked were the people, the other students who made his life miserable not for what they did but what they didn't do.

Even among this small rural community consisting mostly of farmers and ranchers--country folk themselves--he was a social outcast. Too tall, too thin, too awkward. Too poor. His clothes were always neat and clean, but his sweater was wearing thin at the elbows as were the knees of his jeans, and one of the back pockets had been ripped off entirely. In the rigid caste system of cliquish teens, he was accepted by no one; he was a mere serf, someone to be ignored as if he didn't exist, and the rest of the student body was very good at enforcing that unspoken law.

It didn't help that he was both shy and a loner by nature. Perhaps if he'd been more lively or more cheerful, he would have been accepted more easily, but his innate reticence hindered him. Instead, he sought refuge in his music, spending what little free time he had writing down poems and song lyrics, annotating the music and practicing on either his guitar or harmonica. Music was his life. One day, he hoped it would be his ticket out of town as well.

But for the moment, he could honestly say he was content. The crisp air was lightly tinged with smoke from burning leaves, one of his favorite scents since it meant the coming of Autumn, his favorite time of year. Others might think him morbid for preferring the season in which everything was dying--if they even knew that little fact which they didn't--but he didn't care. He found beauty in the crimson and gold leaves, took pleasure in the sky which never seemed so bright and sharp any other time of year.

Dead leaves crunched under his boots as he ambled down the sidewalk, heading for Tate's Music Emporium where he worked every afternoon after school til closing and all day on Saturdays; the store was popular with the town's younger generation because it sold records as well as instruments, which should have elevated his status because he was so often seen, but the mere fact that he was put into the position of serving them only reinforced his underdog status. 

Scuffling his feet, he made little wind-blown piles of leaves fly about, the sight bringing a tiny smile to his lips. Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his denim jacket, he sighed again, this time with contentment. For the moment, life was good...

And then he looked up.

And there she was, walking towards him.

Caroline Elizabeth Maxwell. Also sixteen, also a junior. Cheerleader, member of just about every club the school had to offer, guaranteed to be Homecoming and Prom Queen when they reached their senior year, guaranteed to be voted Miss Popularity in the year book. If Michael was a serf, he was looking at the crown princess, direct heir to Pamela Miller's throne once Queen Pam graduated.

Quickly, he dropped his gaze to the sidewalk, counting the cracks as he drew nearer; he didn't dare meet her eyes or greet her. Indeed, he'd be very much surprised if she even knew who he was, much less that he existed in the first place.

The scent of her perfume--light, floral, delicate as she was herself--drifted to him on the breeze before he reached her, and he felt his palms grow clammy, his heart beat faster in his chest. She was by far the prettiest girl in school, and he was hardly immune to her charms.

"Hello, Michael."

His shock at hearing his name on her rosebud lips was so great that he almost tripped over his own feet and sent himself sprawling to the ground. Instead, he slowed down and hesitantly glanced up, wondering if there was perhaps another Michael around that she was addressing rather than him, but no--she was looking directly at him. And wonder of wonders, she was smiling, her deep blue eyes filled with friendly warmth.

"Hi," he mumbled, wondering if he should stop or keep walking. 

Caroline solved his dilemma by stopping first, cradling her books in both arms as she watched him. "Where are you off to?" she asked, and he stared blankly at her, unsure of what to say and mentally cursing himself for having all the conversational skills of a log. 

"Um...I'm--I have to go to work," he stammered at last. Why was she asking him this? Was she really interested? And why was she talking to him in the first place?

"Oh?" And her tone was not one of bored disinterest. She actually seemed curious. "Where?"

"At--um--at Tate's."

"The record store? I go in there all the time, but I haven't seen you," she replied, her fine blonde eyebrows drawing together in a puzzled frown.

That was because he always took refuge in the stock room the moment he saw her walk in the door. For some reason, the thought of waiting on her, of seeing her dismiss him as a mere servant--or worse, looking through him entirely--was somehow more than he could bear.

"I--uh--I'm in the back a lot. Takin--um--takin inventory." The lie sounded clumsy to his own ears, but Caroline merely nodded.

"Well, I don't want to make you late," she said. Was that mischief he saw in the curve of her mouth? Was she actually teasing him? "Maybe I'll see you around?"

He swallowed cotton, and, not trusting his voice to come out anything less than a high-pitched cracking squeak, he nodded mutely. 

"Maybe you could come by the soda shop sometime," she added breezily as she began to walk away, and he turned to watch her go, stunned by what had just occured.

Caroline Maxwell had spoken to him--a first. None of the popular set ever acknowledged him. Certainly he'd never been invited to join them socially. And wasn't that what she'd just done? Or was he reading too much into her words?

He shook his head to clear it, pivoted on his heel and headed towards the music store again. Foolish, he thought. It would be very foolish to take what she said seriously. Her kind didn't hang out with his kind at the soda shop or anywhere else. Maybe she was just having a good day and decided to be nice. Who knows? He didn't understand it, but he knew he would do best to forget it ever happened.

He also knew that he never would.

~*~*~ 

But over the next few weeks, Caroline Maxwell made it impossible for Michael to forget their brief encounter; for some reason, it seemed as if he couldn't avoid her. He ran into her almost every day as he walked to work, she turned up behind him in the lunch line in the cafeteria, and she even spoke to him when they passed in the halls at school.

At first, he barely managed to croak out a "hello" no matter how friendly and cheerful she behaved, but as he gradually realized this was becoming a habit with her, not merely a passing whim, he relaxed a little. Soon he mustered an answering smile, and after that, it wasn't long before he gathered the courage to stop and hold short, halting conversations with her. Even though his head told him to run, his heart paid no heed; with every day that passed, he fell deeper under her spell until his thoughts were filled with nothing but Caroline and the impossible hope that she could ever care about someone like him.

It was exquisite torture, the sweetest agony he'd ever known, and there was no one he could confide in; he had no close friends, no one who could offer advice or sympathy. He thought briefly about talking to his mother, but she was always too busy or too tired from working just to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. She'd insisted that the majority of his own earnings be put in the bank for college tuition, so he couldn't help as much as he wanted to with the bills.

With no other recourse open to him, he poured his soul into music, constantly scribbling down lyrics that laid bare his deepest feelings and setting them to music that only he heard. Never knowing when inspiration would strike, he kept a notebook with him at all times, and he guarded it carefully--or so he thought.

Mr. Tate had given him the afternoon off as a reward for pulling overtime on a Sunday to help stock an unexpectedly large shipment of records, and Michael had found himself at loose ends for once. Free time was a rarity, and at first, he wasn't quite certain what he wanted to do with it. But it was another perfect Fall day, and he wasn't particularly anxious to go home or be indoors somewhere.

Thus he found himself heading to the town commons where he knew he could enjoy the weather and relax a bit in peace and quiet. Once he got there, he found plenty of vacant benches and very few people around since most of the kids played elsewhere and most of the adults were still at work. He settled on one of the wood benches, flinching a little at the chill seeping through his jeans, but he ignored it and pulled out his notebook, preparing to write down an idea that had occured to him while walking over there.

Just a little love

That's all I have.

I hope that it's enough;

It's all I have.

I can't give you things

That other men can seek.

All that I can give

Is what's inside of me.

I hope someday soon

I can buy you things

But I hope that you don't wait

For me to buy you things.

Take me as I am

With a heart that's pure.

Take me as I am,

I'll be ever yours.

I want a girl like you

That I can love,

A girl who wants just me

And not the things I have,

A girl who'll stand by me,

And when she draws near,

I'll soothe her troubled mind,

Dry away her tears.

I hope you will lean

Upon my love;

You'll find you can depend on my love,

And when I have more to offer you,

You can have it all.

I'll give that too.

"Oh, Michael--that's beautiful!"

Startled out of his reverie, Michael jumped, snapping his notebook closed, feeling his heart pounding against the walls of his chest at the sudden fright. Glancing up, he saw Caroline skirting the bench to sit next to him, her smile radiant as she lightly placed her hand on his. That one gentle touch shattered him inside although he fought not to show it. What should he do? Pull his hand away? That was the last thing he wanted. Uncertain, he remained utterly still, his eyes widening slightly as he watched her scoot closer to him.

"You just thought that up?" she asked, pointing at his notebook, and he felt heat rushing into his face at the thought of her reading any part of what he'd written. "You weren't copying it from somewhere?"

"No!" he blurted indignantly, his pride stung by the insinuation he might have been just rehashing someone else's work. "It's mine. I wrote it."

"May I see it again?" she asked softly, turning those wide blue eyes on him, and he felt his resolve melting away.

He knew it was a risk, perhaps one of the most idiotic things he'd ever done, but he was helpless to resist her plea, and before he was even aware that he'd made the decision, he flipped the notebook open to the right page and handed it to her.

His stomach clenched in painful knots as he waited for her to finish reading, and when she looked up from the page at last, he held his breath, waiting for her reaction. The chilly autumn breeze sent a tendril of pale hair wafting against her cheek as she turned a playful smile on him, and he almost had to sit on his hands to resist the urge to brush it back for her.

"Did you have someone in mind when you wrote it?" she asked, her tone light and teasing.

"Yes..." he grudgingly admitted, glancing away from her and studying a squirrel scampering among the dead leaves piled up nearby. 

"Oh? Should I be jealous?"

He snapped his head around to look at her again, astonished. "Jealous? About what?"

"That you're writing poetry--beautiful poetry--to your girl," she replied, giving his forearm a little squeeze, and he felt his face grow even hotter, the blood stinging his cheeks.

"Not to my girl..." he mumbled, reaching for the notebook again. He wanted to leave--to escape before--

"Don't you have a girl, Michael?" Her voice was soft, enticing, a melodic sound that charmed him--and she knew it. She had to. She was just toying with him, nothing more.

"No," he retorted, unable to keep the sharp edge out of his voice. "You know I don't." He was tempted to add, _what girl around here would be seen with me?_ but he remained silent.

"Then who did you write the poem for?"

Clenching his hands into fists in his lap, he struggled to cap the tide of anger welling within him, not wanting to unleash it against her of all people. She was a pretty, popular girl, accustomed to getting what she wanted, and right now, apparently it amused her to torture the school outcast. Poor he might be, but he had pride.

"You!" he snapped, jumping to his feet and glaring down at her. "Happy now? Isn't that what you wanted to hear?"

He whirled around, ready to walk away--and then suddenly he felt her arms around his shoulders, restraining him, heard her voice whispering against his ear, "Yes, it is."

The notebook fell unheeded to the sidewalk as he turned to face her, still caught in her embrace; instinctively, he slipped his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. She was only a matter of three or four inches shorter than he, and they fit together as if they were made for each other.

"You can kiss me if you want," she murmured, linking her arms tightly around his neck as she gazed up at him.

"I--what--?" Did he dare--?

"Don't you want to?"

A foolish question. He wanted to more than anything else in the world; her candy-pink mouth was a temptation, but he couldn't bring himself to cross that line, to erase the unspoken boundary between them. Instead, Caroline took matters into her own hands and pressed her lips to his.

His first kiss.

It was honey and nectar; it was sunshine in the spring; it was magic.

And Michael knew he was in love.

~*~*~ 

**March, 1963**

And so with a kiss, it had begun.

From that moment on, Michael made no secret of the fact that he was head-over-heels in love with Caroline Maxwell neither to himself nor to her. He could scarcely believe she was willing to cross the social lines and date him, but she allowed him to take her to the movies and to dinner, and she even encouraged him to join her and her friends at the soda shop whenever he could, which wasn't often.

There were two main reasons he avoided her crowd. One was that he was usually busy working while they were idling away their time sipping malts and carrying on over ice cream. The other was that he didn't feel comfortable with them. He was just as clean-cut as any of the other boys; he kept his wavy hair short enough that it wasn't unruly as it could be if he ever went too long without a haircut, and he was always neat and meticulous in his appearance, but his clothes weren't new, and they weren't fashionable, which made him feel like he stuck out like a sore thumb among the rest of them.

Only one person among Caroline's clique made him feel welcome, and that was Laura Wheeler. She was a no-nonsense girl who never bothered hiding her feelings or opinions. When she saw Michael and Caroline at the movies together one night, she had immediately come over to talk to them. After a few minutes, she'd turned to Michael and announced, "I hope you know what you're gettin' into. You're a nice guy, and I'm not sure she deserves you." Caroline had laughed, but Laura had not, and he had wondered what she meant. Surely she couldn't have been implying anything negative about Caroline! There was nothing negative about her; she was beautiful and kind and sweet--the perfect girl. And he was lucky she'd chosen to be with him, even for a while.

His insecurity about their social inequality had kept him nervous at first, fretful that any moment the axe would fall and Caroline would tell him it was over between them. But weeks had turned into months and months had turned into years. Before he realized it, their senior year was upon them, and graduation was looming close.

It was time to start thinking about the future, and Michael knew one thing for certain: he couldn't picture his future without Caroline in it.

During the two years they had been dating, he had been unable to refuse anything she ever asked of him; one word from her, and he jumped to do her bidding, no matter what. When she wanted to go out, they went out; when she called to cancel a date, he accepted her reasons for it without question. The only time he'd come close to balking was a few months after they had started dating when she insisted that he needed to buy a car.

"But Caroline, darlin'--where am I supposed to get the money?" he'd replied, certain she was joking, but her expression was dead serious when she answered,

"You've got a savings account, haven't you? You told me you did." 

"Well...yeah, but honey, that's my college tuition--"

"You have to get a car," she interrupted, her blue eyes growing steely with determination. "I'm tired of walking everywhere. We can't go anywhere if you don't have a car."

"But--" He spread his hands helplessly, torn between wanting to please her and wanting to keep the money he'd saved intact.

"You love me, don't you?" She twined her arms around his neck, her voice a provacative whisper.

"Of course I do," he said, gathering her in his arms, already feeling his resistance to her will crumbling. "I love you more than anything in the world."

"Well, then..." She kissed him--the deathblow to his faltering protest. "If you love me, you'll buy a car."

He'd gone out and bought one the next day.

His mother had been disappointed, but she merely shook her head and said she hoped he could build his nest egg back up again in the time he had left before graduation. But he hadn't; somehow, he'd managed to chip away bits and pieces of the savings--all of it going to Caroline--until precious little was left.

And he'd just finished off that paltrey sum as well.

Reaching into his pocket, he closed his fingers around the small velvet box nestled there; once he got home, he'd put it away for safe-keeping until after graduation. He'd never refused her anything; he hoped she wouldn't refuse him now.

~*~*~ 

"I have to call off our plans for tonight."

Michael gripped the phone receiver tighter, his eyebrows snapping together in a scowl. " _Again_? Baby, this is the fourth week in a row!"

"I know," Caroline replied soothingly. "But Janice and Tad broke up, and she's really upset. She needs me tonight. You wouldn't want me to let my best friend be lonely and miserable while I'm off having a good time, would you?"

" _Kit's_ supposed to be your best friend, and considerin how little time I've gotten with you lately, yes, I would!" he retorted. " _I_ need you too, Caroline."

"Oh, Michael--don't be a mean ol' growly bear," she cooed, and he felt some of his anger melting away. "I promise we'll go out tomorrow night, okay?"

"Okay..." he agreed reluctantly. "But I'm gonna hold you to it--I've missed you."

"I know. Tomorrow night, I promise! Love you, darling."

"I love you too," he answered, but she'd already hung up.

With a frustrated sigh, he slammed the receiver back into the cradle and stood glaring out the window for a moment, trying to decide what he was going to do. His mother was working, which meant if he stayed home, he'd be all alone in the house. Normally that wouldn't bother him; in the past, he relished quiet moments of privacy so he could work on his music, but he hadn't picked up his notebook in...how long had it been? Months? He was so distracted with Caroline, he hadn't written anything in longer than he could remember.

That night, the creative spirit definitely was _not_ upon him. He felt restless, and the walls of the house were too close, too confining for him to stay inside. Instead, he grabbed his jacket and stalked out the door, unsure of where he would end up but knowing he had to go somewhere--anywhere but where he was.

He drove around town for a while, then impulse prompted him to wheel into the parking lot outside the soda shop; while he still considered Caroline's friends her friends and not his, he hoped perhaps he could pass a couple of hours with whoever might be there nonetheless. But he was doomed to disappointment once more; when he walked in, he couldn't see anyone he knew in the crowd, and he was about to leave when a familiar voice stopped him.

"Michael!" Laura jumped up from her table in the back and hurried to him, smiling and waving as she did.

"Hey, Laura." He smiled back when she reached him, pleased to see her. "What's up?"

"Not much." She linked her arm through his, guiding through the milling throng of young people to her two-seater table and taking her seat again. "What're you doin' out tonight?"

"Aw, I got bored at home," he said as he dropped into the empty chair across from her. "Just thought I'd see if I could find anyone around."

"What about Caroline?" she asked sharply.

"She's with Janice."

"Uh huh." Laura grimaced, twisting a paper napkin between her fingers as she averted her gaze from his.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded, a sudden pang of doubt stabbing his heart. He'd never known Laura to look or act so evasive. "She said Jan's all upset 'cause she and Tad broke up."

"Yeah, they broke up, and yeah, Jan's upset..." Again Laura spoke slowly and hesitantly, and as much as he hated himself for it, he found himself growing suspicious.

"But?" he prompted, and she glanced up at him shrewdly.

"But what?"

"You tell me," he countered. "I get the feelin you know something. You wanna tell me what it is?"

"No," Laura shot back bluntly. "I don't, but it's about time _someone_ told you the truth, Michael, and now's as good a time as any." Her voice rose with anger, and she darted a wary look around the room to make sure no one had overheard her outburst.

"The truth? What're you talkin about?" His own temper was beginning to rise now, and he fought to remain calm despite the growing sense of dread stealing over him. He didn't want to hear this; he knew he didn't, but he had no choice...

"Look, Michael..." Laura gazed at him, her expression filled with sympathy. "I like you. I think you're a really great guy, and you don't deserve to be treated like this."

"Treated like what?" he exclaimed, clenching his hands into fists on the table top. "Everyone's been nice to me--"

"To your _face_ , sure," she replied, a contemptuous sneer curling her lip. "But you're a laughingstock to them--to Caroline and her friends. She's been playin' games with you for two years, and I'm sick of watchin' it. She likes controllin' you, and believe me, you're not the only boy around here dancin' on the end of her leash." 

"You're makin this up--"

"I wish I were." Laura reached out and touched his arm, her eyes radiating compassion. "You know where she is right now? She's not with Janice, that's for sure."

"Where is she?" he ground out through gritted teeth, his voice low but intense.

Everything within him was knotted with rage and despair, but try as he might, he couldn't dismiss Laura's words. They rang too true. If he looked objectively at his own behavior, he knew he'd been Caroline's puppet. And as much as he wanted to deny it, he knew all the excuses she'd given for breaking dates were just that: lame excuses. He'd chosen to remain blind. But his eyes were starting to open now.

"With Jim Bailey," Laura replied simply. "Drive up to Old Mill Lane. If they're not there, I'll be mighty surprised. I'm sorry--" 

But he didn't hear; he'd immediately leaped to his feet, knocking the chair over in his haste to escape the soda shop. His boots pounded on the asphalt as he ran to his car, and when he peeled out of the parking lot, the screeching tires left black skid marks.

Later he supposed he was lucky he hadn't gotten pulled by a cop when his speed reached over a hundred miles per hour on his mad drive up to Old Mill Lane--the popular make-out spot for Farmer's Branch teens. It took him all of thirty seconds to identify Jim's scarlet Mustang, and once he'd screeched to a halt in the nearest empty space, he flung his car door open and raced over, intent on confronting his wayward girlfriend.

One look in the window, however, and he stopped dead in his tracks, bile rising in his throat as a wave of nausea washed over him. He stared blindly at the car as he stumbled backwards, seeing nothing but the image of her--and Jim--shimmering in front of him. 

How could she...?

How _dare_ she!

The longer he stood there, the more his sick despair transformed into pure white fury, and suddenly, before he quite realized what he was doing, he found himself sprinting back to the Mustang, yanking the door open and pulling Jim Bailey out of the car by what few clothes he was still wearing.

As soon as she spotted Michael over Jim's shoulder, Caroline began to scream, her face a mask of panic and fear, but he ignored her and her frantic efforts to cover herself. In the tiny pocket of reason that remained in his rage-fogged brain, a quiet voice noted with some amusement that it really was ironic: he'd fantasized about Caroline endlessly, but now that the sight of her was finally before his eyes, he no longer cared.

He had never been in a fight before; he'd never struck another person before, and under normal circumstances, he certainly was no real match for Jim, who was one of the school's star athletes. But these were not normal circumstances. Fury gave him strength, the element of surprise gave him an advantage, and before Jim recovered enough--before he could arrange his clothes so that they didn't entangle him--Michael landed a right hook that had all the passion and anger of a broken heart behind it.

"Oh, my God!" Caroline shrieked, scrambling out of the car at last to crouch by Jim's side. "What did you do to him?" She glared up at Michael briefly before turning back to Jim, lightly slapping his cheeks in an effort to bring him around.

Michael stared down at her impassively, shaking his hand; now that the adrenaline rush was ebbing, he was beginning to feel the pain, and he had a feeling his knuckles would be bruised in the morning. 

"Nothin he didn't deserve," he replied coldly. "Or you either, but I don't hit girls. Not even tramps like you."

She gasped and bounced to her feet, staring at him in wide-eyed shock. "How dare you speak that way to me!"

"Don't play innocent with me," he sneered. "I saw what was goin on. If you're really as pure as you've been makin me think all this time, I'm a millionaire."

With an outraged cry, she raised her hand as if to slap him, but he caught her wrist and held it fast.

"I wouldn't," he said, his voice quiet and calm, but there was an edge of steel in it that made Caroline swallow hard and shrink away from him, fear creeping into her eyes.

"Michael...I--I can explain--" she faltered, but he released her arm, flinging it away from him as if the contact disgusted him.

"What do you see when you look at me?" he demanded icily. "A fool? Yeah, I was once--but not anymore. Those days are over, Caroline. _We're_ over. If there ever was an 'us' to begin with."

"It's not what you think! I--"

"What am I supposed to think?" he shouted, and she backed away, cringing against the side of Jim's Mustang. "I know what I saw! And I know it makes a mockery of everything I've felt and everything I've done for you. I accepted what you gave me and never asked for more. I never pushed you. I thought you were a sweet, innocent-- _angel_." He spat the word out like a curse.

Tears welled up in her huge blue eyes, leaving silver streaks on her cheeks in the moonlight; in the past, a single tear from her could bring him to her feet, but now he stood unmoved, his heart turned to stone; nothing she could do or say would move him ever again.

"Michael--please--!" She was sobbing openly now, stretching out her hands to him in wordless supplication, but he simply gave her one last contemptuous look, turned his back and walked away.

~*~*~ 

**June, 1963**

He gazed steadily in the mirror at the gaunt, beard-stubbled face that stared back at him; his features were blank, his dark eyes guarded--a habitual expression of late. He hadn't wanted to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing his pain, and he had carefully schooled himself to mask his emotions.

 _Was there a bigger fool ever born_? he asked himself bitterly. A lightning-quick burst of anger flashed in the depths of his eyes, and then it was gone again as if it had never been there at all. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool, smooth mirror and closing his eyes.

It had been almost three months since that fateful night when he'd discovered Caroline's true colors; since then, he'd ignored her and the rest of her pack of friends. It wasn't too difficult; for the most part, they ignored him as well, and Caroline had given up trying to talk to him when she realized her old manipulative tricks no longer had any effect on him.

The one exception was Laura. She had visited him the next day, offering her sympathy.

"I'm sorry I had to be the one to tell you," she'd said, her tone laced with regret. "Maybe it would've been better if I hadn't."

"No!" he had exclaimed, shaking his head firmly. "I needed to know. I'm just ashamed I didn't figure it out myself...and that it went on for so long." He sighed and dropped his head in his hands. "I must be so stupid--"

"No, you were in love," she interrupted gently, touching his shoulder in a comforting gesture. "And you know what they say: love is blind."

"In my case, it was deaf and dumb too," he laughed mirthlessly. " _Real_ dumb." He paused, a fresh bout of misery welling up inside as he thought about the past two years and how he'd wasted them on such a petty, shallow girl. "I still don't get it, though. Why? When she could have any guy in the school. Why me?"

"Because she _could_ have any boy in school," Laura replied pragmatically. "She told me once that you were a challenge. You were always so quiet and distant, and she thought it would be fun to try to get you to fall for her."

" _Fun_?" he echoed, his temper rising again, and Laura nodded somberly.

"It started out as a game to her, just another conquest--one more in a string of many. But you were so devoted to her, she liked havin' you around. She liked havin' a guy who'd do anything she said the moment she said it, so..." She let her words trail off with a significant shrug.

"So she kept her little lapdog," he finished grimly, and she nodded agreement.

Knowing this made it even easier for him to keep his distance from Caroline, but as angry as he was, as much as he wanted to hate her, there was still a tight ball of pain in his soul, a dark spot in his heart that ached for her; when he'd fallen in love with her, he'd devoted his entire being to her, given her his heart and soul to do with as she pleased, and she'd chosen to trample them in the dust. 

He would never give away that much of himself to a woman again. He knew better now. He never wanted to fall in love again; he never wanted to show a woman how much she meant to him or to tell her how he felt. To do so would give her power, and he intended that no one would ever be able to wield that sort of power over him again. It wasn't worth the risk of such terrible pain as he was suffering now. Besides, Caroline--a girl he'd thought was the best, most wonderful girl in the world--had turned out to be a cheater and a liar. How could he ever trust another girl again after that? If Caroline could be that way, so could any other girl.

No, he wouldn't get involved like that ever again. His heart would remain his own for the rest of his life.

And so graduation had come and gone, and now he was facing his future. Without Caroline. Without his college tuition.

But that didn't bother him so much. If this debacle had done nothing else, it had given him a new perspective on what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. College would have been nice, but it would've been a mere time-killer until he could start what he really wanted to do, which was pursue a career in music. Getting free of Caroline had also set him free to start writing again, and he'd done so with a vengeance, reminding him what his true love really was: music.

He'd returned the ring and gotten his money back. He'd also sold his car and bought himself a motorcycle instead. That left him with enough cash to get where he was going and help him survive until he found a job.

Now he was ready to go.

He'd already said good-bye to his mother, who had cried not only over the heartache he'd suffered but also over his plans, worrying that he was taking too big a risk which would lead only to failure. But in the end, she had accepted his decision and wished him luck. 

Now all that remained was to say good-bye to himself.

Or rather, to Michael.

He was long gone anyway. The innocent, naive boy had fled. The face that stared back at him in the mirror belonged to another person entirely. It was thinner, the expression was impassive, the eyes were older and hopefully wiser. He'd neglected to get a haircut in weeks, and his hair curled against his collar, the part on the right that he'd kept neatly brushed back now falling in an unruly wave across his forehead.

Pushing away from the sink, he checked the bathroom cabinet one last time to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, then he returned to his bedroom and grabbed the old green wool winter hat he'd found in the back of his closet; he'd gone looking for it once he'd bought the motorcycle because he'd quickly realized he needed something to keep his hair from blowing in his eyes while he rode. After he'd settled it on his head, he picked up his luggage--an overstuffed duffelbag and his guitarcase--and walked out the front door to his motorcycle which waited in the front yard. Securing his bags on the back, he mounted it and looked over his shoulder once more at his home, letting the sight of it engrave itself on his memory.

Then he turned around again and, starting the engine, Mike roared out of the yard, out of town, out of Texas, headed west to California, never once looking back.


End file.
